


tis the damn season

by capthamm



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Based on a Taylor Swift Song, Christmas, Christmas Angst, Denial of Feelings, F/M, Feelings Realization, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Home for Christmas, Inspired by Taylor Swift, Merry Christmas, POV Emma Swan, brief mention of Neal and milah, meddling snow, so much Christmastime feels, that's three Christmas fics, tis the damn season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:42:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28270047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capthamm/pseuds/capthamm
Summary: Emma Swan has a system. Her and Killian have a deal. It's worked until now.
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 8
Kudos: 57





	tis the damn season

**Author's Note:**

> oops I did it again....
> 
> inspired by tis the damn season
> 
> "So we could call it even  
> You could call me babe for the weekend  
> 'Tis the damn season, write this down  
> I'm stayin' at my parents' house  
> And the road not taken looks real good now  
> And it always leads to you in my hometown"

Emma’s stomach is in knots as she pulls up the drive to her parents’ farmhouse. It’s been… a long time. 

_A year._

She used to be the “chreaster” equivalent of a daughter— showing up for major holidays, but otherwise ignoring the existence of her hometown and its residents entirely. Emma told herself it was better this way— less frequent interrogations and pity stares from her parents, low expectations from her friends, and just the right amount of Killian Jones to ensure she won’t break all over again. 

It _was_ the perfect plan. 

The more “major” holidays she returned for, the more holidays her mother decided were considered major. Soon, she found herself coming up 12-14 times a year and it became overwhelming. Two years ago her friends made plans for Labor Day before she even told them she was coming, and Killian offered to drive with her when his flight arrived in Boston the same day she was leaving for Thanksgiving. 

Everyone was getting too comfortable and Emma needed space. People were starting to have expectations, and Emma has never been good at living up to those. 

However, if you put enough space between you and those you care about, you won’t disappoint them (and they can’t disappoint you either). So, now she only stays for the week between Christmas Eve and New Year’s Day— no more, no less. 

It’s a good system, but it makes coming home a helluva lot more nerve wracking. 

She parks the car, turns it off, and immediately feels the heat escape, a chill filling the car before she can even will herself to move. Looking up, she sees her mother’s shadow in the kitchen window; Mary Margaret Nolan: the quintessential wife, mother, and teacher. Not a second later, another shadow comes up beside her; David Nolan: farmer, husband, best dad in the entire world. Both of her parents are barely shy of storybook perfection. They’re washing dishes together and Emma smiles softly. Mom washes, Dad dries, and it always ends in a mini water fight and fits of laughter. 

Another chill runs through her spine, effectively shaking her out of her nostalgia and reminding her she’ll freeze to death in this car. Maybe freezing to death is a better option than shattering their perfect cookie cutter life. 

Lord knows Emma has never been “cookie cutter”. 

She bites the bullet, exiting her small yellow bug and grabbing her duffel bag from the trunk. With a deep breath, she heads towards the house for what is sure to be a holly, jolly, family Christmas. 

She opens the door and immediately hears a squeal from the living room, “Emma? Is that you?!”

Already struggling to breathe in a surprisingly tight hug from her mother, Emma can’t help but laugh, “Yes, Mom; who else would it be?” 

Mary Margaret grabs her face, already teary eyed, “Let me look at you; it’s been so long.”

Emma rolls her eyes, “Mom…”

“When you only come home once a year, this has to be expected.” Emma looks over her mother’s shoulder to a sight for sore eyes. 

“Dad!”

Her dad mirrors her Cheshire cat smile, and they meet in the middle for one of her favorite hugs in the world— scratch that— her _favorite_ hug in the world. For as long as she can remember, her father’s hugs have been a cure all. She takes a moment to center herself while he squeezes a bit tighter before letting go. He nods knowingly before grabbing her duffle and heading upstairs to the guest room. He turns back slightly, “There’s hot chocolate on the stove.”

Emma smiles brightly— maybe being home isn’t _so bad._

“I’ll join you; I can’t wait to hear _everything._ ”

Her mom’s words hit like a dagger and she realizes why she doesn’t come here very often anymore— her mom’s hopes and dreams. When it comes to love life and professional aspirations and everything Mary Margaret pictured for her perfect little girl, Emma is disappointment central. 

She follows her mom into the kitchen and sits at the table. While her mom prepares their hot chocolate, Emma picks at a stray string on the festive placemats her mom puts out every year. She sees the stain from when she spilled hot chocolate last year and can’t help but smile at the memory from last Christmas. They had just finished up their Christmas Eve party and while they sat around the table, Mary Margaret brought out the photo albums. When they got to some particularly incriminating photos of her in the bathtub, she leaned forward to take the album from Killian and knocked her mug all over his lap. 

Killian. _Nope. Not going there._

She steals a glance at her phone to see if he’s texted her yet– disappointment at both her lack of willpower and texts is only interrupted by her mom sitting across from her expectantly.

“So, tell me everything. How’s work? Whatcha been up to? Any _people of interest_ I should know about?”

Emma takes a sip from her hot chocolate in an attempt to hide her eye roll. (If her mom’s grimace is anything to go by, she was unsuccessful.) “There truly is nothing new, Mom. Still a bail bonds person, still just exploring Boston, and still single.”

Her mother’s disappointment is almost tactile, luckily her dad walks in effectively cutting through the tension, “Ems, I got you all set up in the guest room. Why don’t you take a sec to get settled in?"

Emma sends her dad a look of gratitude, but as she leaves the room she hears him whisper to her mom, “Just let her breathe, Snow.”

Snow— she loves that pet name. The first time her parents met, her mom was coordinating the snow plow schedule for the entire town. Leroy was being especially picky and Mom was quick to put him in his place. She commanded the room and apparently her dad’s heart. Their first date was plowing the road out to the old abandoned farm house– as assigned by her mother– her dad swears he knew she was the one when the truck got stuck in the driveway and she got out to help him shovel. They bought that farmhouse a year later. It’s not the most romantic “meet cute,” but the rest of their love has been a fricken fairytale so she lets it slide. 

How was she ever supposed to live up to that?

Emma walks into the guestroom, aka her repainted and redecorated childhood room, and feels a sense of relief. She was alone for the entire three hour drive up, but even just the few minutes of interaction leaves her needing a bit of a recharge— turns out being on your own 99.9% of the year _does_ have its consequences. 

Emma flops down on her bed and stares at the glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling— the last remnants of her childhood room. Her dad supposedly left them up after one of them ruined the paint, but Emma’s always suspected it was to keep a little bit of _her_ in this room. 

Either way, she’s glad he did. 

The vibrating of her phone disrupts her nostalgic meditation and she grabs her phone from her back pocket to a new text. 

**  
KJ: You make it in ok?**

Emma breaks into a smile, and quickly types her response. 

**Emma: Yup. Key still under that dumb fake rock?**

**KJ: Yup.**

  
It takes mere seconds for him to respond, and Emma can’t help but laugh. Showering quickly, Emma changes and yells to her parents not to wait up as she leaves through the front door. Enough time will be spent just the three of them that Emma doesn’t feel bad leaving, plus her mom is probably thrilled she has somewhere to go at all— she _swears_ that woman thinks she’s a hermit. 

The short drive to Killian’s apartment feels _just_ as long as the entire drive to Storybrooke so she can’t help but race up the steps and rush to open the door. He’s standing in the kitchen pulling something from the oven, but looks over his shoulder when he hears the door. 

The smile that spreads across his face could power nations, “Swan.”

“Hey, KJ. Is that pizza?” She crosses the room as she speaks, pulling him in for a hug as soon as she’s close enough. His sweater is familiar, he’s warm enough to heat the building, and he still smells the same— it’s comfortable. 

He shakes his head, “Of course, love. You think I’m daft enough to invite you here without having some sort of garbage for you to eat?”

She punches him in the arm before laughing. He motions to the fridge and she helps herself to a beer, grabbing one for him as well. He thanks her and turns back to cut the pizza. They don’t do small talk, never have, they just coexist and Emma’s never been so grateful. 

Funny how he feels more like home than the house she grew up in. 

_Emma, no._

She _really_ wants the pizza, but she also can’t allow herself to– they have a deal. 

Grabbing his belt loop, Emma gets his attention causing him to drop the pizza cutter. They clash together and it feels like she’s breathing for the first time since last Christmas. Killian has always been both a source of peace and well— ya know. So rather than dissect the feelings that make her comfortable in his presence, she acts on the latter. 

And, waking up wrapped in his strong arms, she never regrets it in the morning. That doesn’t stop her from sliding from said arms, getting back into her clothes, and sneaking home before anyone is the wiser. 

Anyone but Killian. 

Sometimes she feels bad for leaving, but then she remembers five years ago when a little too much eggnog led to not enough clothing. It took one time for Emma and Killian to agree to be Christmas fuck buddies— her mother would _hate_ it. 

_  
“That was—“  
_ _“A one time thing.”  
_ _“It doesn’t have to be, love.”  
_ _“Killian— I— Boston.”  
_ _“Calm down, Swan, I’m not asking you out.”  
_ _“Then what exactly_ _are_ _you proposing?”_  
  


And the rest is history– very, _very_ satisfying history. Whoever said you shouldn’t sleep with your best friend _clearly_ didn’t have Killian Jones as their best friend. 

Emma’s not entirely sure she can call him that anymore.

What started with facetime and switching off weekend visits turned into sparse texts when he knows she’s coming home– but it’s what _she_ wanted. Killian always maintained that he was game for more, back to their real friendship, but Emma knows it wouldn’t stop there. Emma knows Killian already has half her heart, if he digs himself any deeper she’ll be a total goner. 

She can’t get hurt again. 

Flashes of memories with Neal play like a broken record whenever she even thinks about starting something with _anyone_. Even one night stands and casual date set-ups via Ruby send her running for the hills. If she doesn’t get close enough to anyone then no one can hurt her– so she doesn’t even take the risk. 

She pulls into the driveway and opts to take a walk around the property in case her parents– known early risers– are already awake. Snow has fallen and collected overnight and she creates fresh prints as she moves around the house. Little things have changed, a new hose, covered roses she can’t recall, and a patched screen door at the back, but the house is still largely the one she grew up in. Emma knows she was lucky to grow up with two parents who loved her so deeply, but she’s not stupid enough to realize that high expectations often crash and burn. 

That’s what she did– with flying colors.

Her mother always had dreams of college and career, marriage and grandkids, all by the time Emma turned 30. Mary Margaret pushed her into every high level course and she tried countless extracurriculars, nothing clicking except the Investigative Science class she took senior year when she failed out of AP Bio in the first month. Something drew her to law enforcement and her parents seemed proud of her decision to join the academy upon graduation. 

Then she met Neal. 

Better not to drudge that up. 

Let’s just say she’s 28 and college, career, marriage, and babies are all pretty much out of the question in the next two years. When she catches a particularly slimy skip or gets commendations for her handling of a case, she likes to pretend her mom would be proud of her, but she knows deep down Mary Margaret doesn’t understand. _“Why would a beautiful woman like you want to chase down the scum of the earth?”_ Luckily she has her dad, and she calls him every time something marginally good happens. 

_“I’m proud of you, Emma.”_

And she knows he is. 

The storm door slams behind her when she finally decides to join her parents inside. They’re in the kitchen making breakfast when she walks in, “Mmm, pancakes.” 

Her mom looks over her shoulder and smiles before turning back to the griddle. Her dad turns around to lean against the counter, “How was your walk, sport?” And then he winks. 

He _winks_. 

Emma brushes it off, there’s no way her dad could actually know where she was because that would involve Killian’s head on a stake at the center of town as some sort of warning about fucking his daughter. She opts for ignorance, “It was fine. The snow is sticking and the property always looks so nice when there’s fresh snowfall. Are any of the pancakes done?”

Her dad raises his eyebrow before handing over a plate of warm pancakes. They sit and eat breakfast together and it’s not horrible– her father acting as a good buffer from her mom’s interrogations. 

They spend the rest of Christmas Eve prepping for the party tonight, each of them taking tasks that come like second nature after so many years of hosting. Guests start to arrive around 6pm and Emma has enough eggnog in her system not to be _too_ jittery over seeing the entire town in her living room. 

Maybe tonight will be ok. 

An hour in and Emma finds herself in a circle of small talk with Ruby, Belle, and Ari. They’re updating her on their fascinating lives of engagements, blind dates, and running a library (Belle makes it _seem_ more interesting that it probably is). She’s about to tell them her token “nothing’s new” when Ruby looks over her shoulder and motions towards someone who just walked in, “Jones! Over here!” 

Emma stops herself from reacting, he’s supposed to be her closest friend so any sort of nerves would be more telling than she’d like. She turns to watch him walk over and he glances towards her, smiling softly with none of the swagger the rest of their friends think is the real Killian. 

She’s the only one who knows the real Killian. 

He says his hellos and settles in next to Emma. She swears his presence is palpable next to her, his body heat warming her like a small space heater– it’s not her fault if she moves a tad closer, drawn to him in ways she’d really rather ignore.

They’re all chatting like old times when Belle interrupts, “Wait! Killian! Where’s Milah?” 

“Yeah, Killian, where _is_ that girl of yours?” Ruby shoves his shoulder.

When she was a little girl, her dad used to drop ice cubes down the back of her shirt as a joke. They’d chase each other around the house in a literal game of freeze tag. The game ended when there was water all over the floor and her mom would make them clean it all up. She much prefers _that_ to the chill that just ran through her. 

Killian stiffens beside her and Emma has another rush of realization causing her to choke on her eggnog. Ruby still shoots her a confused look, but Killian speaks before her friends can inquire any further about Emma’s reaction, “Not coming tonight, love.” 

Who the _fuck_ is Milah? 

Emma doesn’t care, doesn’t have any _right_ to care, except for the _very_ real fact that her and Killian fucked last night. She excuses herself, “I have to get some air,” before leaving the party out the front door. Her footprints from the morning are still semi visible despite the flurries from throughout the day so she follows her same meditative path. 

_Killian. Milah. Girlfriend?_ It’s all a little much for her to comprehend, especially three eggnogs in. The cold air begins to sober her up a bit and she realizes someone is walking behind her. 

She knows it’s him, “Killian, go away.”

“Swan, it’s not–” He grabs her wrist and she hesitates to turn around. 

“I _really_ don’t want to hear it, Killian.” She turns to face him, “You’re a big boy, you can do whatever the fuck you want. Just don’t pull me into your games. You know I really thought you were–” 

Then he’s kissing her and she can’t seem to remember what she was mad about in the first place. They break apart and he speaks against her lips, “Milah was– well, is married.” 

Oh right. His girlfriend. 

She takes a moment to process what he’s saying, she doesn’t speak, hoping he’ll elaborate more. Killian backs away a little bit, their stance only slightly less incriminating should anyone else decide to walk the grounds. They’re still close, and his hand remains on her wrist, his thumb rubbing gently over the flower tattoo she got the moment she turned 18– just another way to spite her mother. “I met her right at the beginning of the new year. We hit it off and went on a couple dates. It felt good to be– it doesn’t matter.” Emma winces, knowing the end of that sentence without Killian saying it aloud. “She was married the entire time and I wasn’t privy to that information until September. When I found out, I was so ashamed I just… didn’t tell anyone it had ended.”

Emma nods, shame being all too familiar in her life, “I’m sorry, Killian.” 

“It’s alright, love. But I reckon you were a bit jealous back there?” He clicks his ‘t’ and wiggles his eyebrows at her; she can’t help but laugh. 

“Not jealous, just feeling like the _other woman_ for a bit.” He stiffens again, and Emma realizes what she said, “Killian not that I’d ever think you’d–” 

Kissing her to shut her up is apparently something he does now– she’s not complaining but this used to be reserved for their private evenings. Out in the open seems risky– seems real. She pulls away and he sighs.

She’s breaking his heart, she knows that. They were 18 when he asked her out for the first time, she laughed at him thinking it was a joke, friends to lovers _never_ works out without someone getting hurt. Then he asked once more on the day she left for Boston. This time she knew he was serious, and maybe in another time she _would’ve_ said yes, but Boston was safer than risking it all with her best friend. 

Now they’re just... this– a delicate situation hanging between the two of them as each takes part of what they want because they’re both too scared to take it all. 

She wishes she weren’t so broken. 

They head back inside and the rest of the party seems to go ok, the guests filter out and Killian lingers to help clean up like he’s done for the last couple years. They stay up later than her parents to make sure they’re asleep before Emma leads him up the stairs to her room. 

Neither Killian nor Emma may be good at relationships, but she knows they’re good at this. 

Emma wakes up on Christmas morning and his side of the bed is already empty. She checks the clock and sees 9:00am– better than she’s slept in years. There’s a small note next to her bed, Killian’s handwriting more recognizable to her than her own, _Merry Christmas, Swan._

And it is, for the most part. Her mom tucks her questions away for the day and they spend their time watching movies, opening gifts, and drinking hot chocolate– it feels like she’s a kid all over again. 

It’s almost perfect. 

Then the doorbell rings and her mom is practically vibrating on her way to the door. Emma assumes it's a neighbor dropping off cookies or some carolers, so when Killian walks into the living room she can’t help but spill the bowl of popcorn she’s holding all over the floor. 

Like she said, _almost_ perfect. 

Her mother, ever the attentive host, rushes to his side after hanging his coat, “As you all know, Killian’s usually on his own for the holidays so I invited him over for Christmas dinner!” 

He’s looking right at Emma as he scratches behind his ear– clearly knowing he’s in hot water. “Aye, Mrs. Nolan invited me this afternoon and insisted–” 

“Welcome, Killian!” Her dad cuts him off and shoots Emma his best _be nice_ look before going over to greet their new guest. 

Emma can _be nice_. 

She smiles and puts on her sweetest tone, “Yes, Killian, welcome! Why don’t you come to the kitchen and I’ll get you some hot chocolate?”

He hesitates, but her mother and father have already settled in on the couch so it’s them or her and she _knows_ he’ll choose her. (She ignores the voice in her head telling her he _always_ chooses her.) 

Then her confusion as to why he’s here at all hits her again, “What are you doing here, Killian?” She doesn’t face him, busying herself with the hot chocolate. 

“Emma, I would’ve told you, but I barely had time to get ready let alone notify you of my invitation.” She feels him hover behind her, most likely leaning on the island in the middle of the kitchen to somehow be as close to her as possible and still at a safe distance. Emma wishes she wasn’t so “prickly”– thanks, Belle– but she keeps telling herself it’s for the best. 

It _is_ for the best. 

Either way, she concedes, not able to kick him out now. “It’s fine, Killian, honestly.” She hands him a mug shaped like Rudolph, “Here.” 

“Thank you, m’lady.” He takes her hand and kisses the knuckles and Emma rolls her eyes. 

“Let’s go, weirdo.” Killian mock bows and she laughs her way into the living room, catching her mother’s look out of the corner of her eye and immediately regretting going off alone with Killian at all. When he settles into the loveseat, Emma knows he’s expecting her to sit next to him– to tuck her freezing feet beneath his calf and fight over the bowl of popcorn she left there when he walked in.

It’s too domestic– she opts for the recliner. 

The rest of the night is uneventful— subtle, confused looks from Killian aside. They eat dinner and the conversation is light, no prying from her mom or misplaced overprotectiveness from her dad. After dinner they continue their Christmas movie marathon. Her parents head to bed in the middle of Home Alone 2— Emma doesn’t blame them, what kind of family loses track of their 7 year old _twice—_ leaving Killian and her in an awkward silence. 

Their silences are never awkward.

She gets up to go to the bathroom during a commercial break— her dad _insists_ on recording the movies on TV despite the hoards of DVDs they have upstairs— and when she returns Killian is standing and putting on his coat. 

“Where are you going?” Her own voice startled her after being pretty much nonexistent since Killian arrived. It seems to startle Killian, too. He looks up from zippering his coat, his gaze unreadable in the low light of the TV. 

“Pardon?” If it weren’t Killian she’d think that was a smart ass answer, but his confusion is genuine and she realizes he must’ve been in his own head when she interrupted with her question. 

“Oh, uh, I was just wondering where you’re going… I mean, there’s still a little bit left of the movie…” She looks from the TV to him, an infomercial lighting the room better than whatever commercial was on before it.

A wide array of expressions cross his face as she talks, but his features settle into something dangerously close to disappointment, “Ah, yes, well as it turns out I’m not really a fan of sequels.”

Emma doesn’t like the route this conversation is going, her stomach is twisting in knots she hasn’t felt since the day he watched her leave for Boston— her instincts fighting with her heart. “Oh well, we can turn it off and head upstairs, if you want?”

Her heart wins this round. It’s selfish, entirely selfish, but she can’t help herself. Something in her is screaming that Killian is deeper into this than she dares to be, but for one more night she wants to pretend. 

He nods, it’s reserved but hopeful and he turns off the TV before grabbing Emma’s hand and leading her to the star-covered room they’ve frequented many times before. 

It’s early when Emma wakes up in his arms. His warm breath tickles the back of her neck and his fingers are intertwined with hers over her stomach. Emma longs for this. Every morning she wakes up in Boston to a cold, lonely bed and longs for Killian. Every evening she comes home and wishes he were standing in the kitchen with dinner ready. When she gets out of her nightly shower, she could swear she hears him cursing the football game on the TV, but walks to the living room to find it just as empty as she is. 

But longing for it and making it happen are two very different things.

Fear floods through Emma as she feels herself inadvertently settle further into his arms. She stiffens as the rush of emotion overtakes her. This isn’t _real._ They’re scratching an itch, giving into instinct, playing house. Selfishly she’s been using Killian to pretend she was brave enough to go after the life she wants and then leaving him just before they take that final step. The step that pushes them past the point of no return. 

It’s all pretend. She’ll wake up a week from now cold, lonely, and in Boston— surviving off the memories and small glimpses of what _could_ be. 

But it isn’t.

Emma slowly removes herself from the bed. Something about this trip feels different and if she stays a second longer she’s worried she’ll never leave. 

She doesn’t have time to contemplate the fleeting thought of whether that’d really be such a bad thing. 

With Killian still asleep in her bed, Emma packs everything she can into her duffel bag. Fifteen minutes later, and one more scan around the room tells her she has all she needs. She starts towards the door, the bed creaks, and Emma freezes. 

“Swan, please don’t.”

She should respond. This feels like goodbye all over again. There’s desperation in his voice, but it’s laced with melancholy— she recognizes it as similar to her own. 

But she has voices in her head to keep her heart on track. She wasn’t enough for Neal, she’s never been enough for her mother, what makes her honestly think she could be enough for him? 

So she reaches for the doorknob without responding. The last thing she hears before walking down the steps in a loud sigh and another creak of the bed. She’s checking her notifications as she walks down the stairs and practically slams into her mother. 

“Good morning, Emma!” Her mother is chipper as usual until she takes a good long look at her daughter with car keys in hand and a duffle bag slung over her shoulder. “You’re leaving? Already? I thought we had you ‘til New Years?”

Emma sighs, “Something’s come up. I’m sorry, Mom.”

Her mother studies her a moment before speaking again, “He helps around the farm even when you’re not around— makes sure your father doesn’t fall off any ladders or something like that.” Emma is about to interrupt when her mom continues. “I always thought it was just because he was lonely, but after the way he looked at you last night, I think he was just desperately trying to hold onto what little of you he could.” Tears start to well in Emma’s eyes and she looks away from her mother as she speaks, “I know Neal hurt you, but not everyone is Neal. And I know I’ve not always been the most supportive when it came to finding your way, but not everyone is me.”

Emma looks up then, her mother’s bright green eyes reflecting the tears in her own. 

“That wall of yours may keep out pain, but it also keeps out love. And I know I’m meddlesome, and not very subtle about it,” Emma chuckles at Mary Margaret’s self deprecation, “I just don’t want you to lose what very well could be the best thing for you. He’s very patient, but he won’t wait around forever.”

Emma nods, her mother’s words sinking in– too bad it isn’t her mother’s voice echoing through her head. 

Emma pulls her in for a hug, “Love you, Mom. Tell dad I love him too. I’ll call when I get in.” 

She can tell her mom has more to say, but bites her tongue before nodding and walking Emma out the door. 

After loading the car, she waves to her mother in the front window before getting behind the driver’s wheel. Hesitating slightly, she turns the ignition and settles on what she does best— she runs. 

. . . 

Her apartment always feels significantly more empty after a few nights with Killian, but she made her bed so now she’s going to lie in it. The next few days are routine, work allowing her to rescind her vacation request. A relatively easy skip serves as a perfect distraction from where she should be and what she’s left behind. 

The guy embezzled money and then left his wife and kids in the dust— she uses a honeytrap to catch the shithead on New Year’s Eve. After taking him into the station, she’s anxious to get home and slip into some PJs to watch the festivities from the comfort of her sectional. 

She showers off the day and makes a frozen pizza before grabbing a beer and flipping the channels between NYE coverages. 

The doorbell rings at 11:34PM— she wasn’t expecting any visitors. 

Emma looks through the peephole to find a scruffy profile she knows all too well. She opens the door— stunned. 

“Swan.” Killian looks absolutely awestruck, like her mismatched pajamas and messy bun are red carpet attire– she silently wonders if he’s always looked at her this way. 

“Killian, what’re you— how’s you—“

He cuts her off, “Your parents gave me your address. I—“ Another apartment door opens and loud music from a much livelier NYE floods the hallway, “Well, can i come in?”

“Oh god, of course! Sorry I didn’t mean to leave you— I mean— standing out in the—“

He kisses her. This kiss is unlike any they’ve shared in the past— heat and lust nowhere to be found. It’s gentle, and caring, and somehow Emma feels loved just by the soft cradle of his thumb on her cheek. 

She flinches at the thought. Killian must notice because he breaks away, resting his forehead on hers, “Emma— I couldn’t let you do this.”

Her head is in disarray as she pieces together the whirlwind of events that just occurred, she answers pathetically, “What?”

Stepping back slightly, he brushes a stray hair out of her eyes before tilting her chin up so they’re looking eye to eye. “I let you run before, I wasn’t going to make that mistake again.”

He came for her.

Emma isn’t cookie-cutter, she doesn’t live up to expectations, and she’s never been a match for Killian’s flowery sentiments, but she knows how to kiss. 

Killian doesn’t leave for three days. They’re the most emotionally taxing three days of her life, her and Killian hashing out everything they’ve shoved down for the better part of 15 years. The difference is, when he leaves this time, he kisses her goodbye and promises to call knowing Emma _will_ answer. 

She’s not going to hide behind her wall anymore– especially not with Killian. 

It only takes a month for him to get things sorted at work, and he moves in not long after. They keep things private, not wanting outside input to ruin the foundation they’ve decided to repair. Killian tells her parents he was reassigned to the Boston port for work and that Emma is just helping him out until he can find a place of his own. The white lie gives them what they need, time to heal, time to build, and time to truly fall in love. 

It isn’t until they show up for Easter weekend together that her mother is any the wiser, but if the smirk on her dad’s face is any indication, he knew all along. 

Someday Emma will ask him just _how_ long. 

Turns out, with Killian by her side, the prospect of 12 major holidays in Storybrooke is infinitely less daunting. They celebrate everything from Mother’s Day to Thanksgiving at the cozy little farmhouse and the dread Emma would feel has evaporated completely. When they come for Christmas, Killian carries their bags to the guest room and the twinkle in her mother’s eye is undeniable. The next morning, he proposes in the quiet of her old childhood bedroom early on Christmas morning, and Emma's never been happier to be home for the holidays.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you and Merry Christmas to each and every one of you wonderful people :)
> 
> capthamm on Tumblr <3


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